The Politics of Walking

  I’m not fond of the word, revolution. Bigger men than I have carried guns throughout history and made a loud clamor. But nothing lasts forever, not even the fire sustained by their children. More to the point, how useless I would be in war; this mind is enough to fight alone. And besides, I…

A Poppy in October

Is it death we fear, or the leaving before knowing love? Are there that many fields of students that go missing high up in the mountains, while following along some trail, waging war on themselves just to learn an answer: that loves’ greatest peak is where we allow ourselves to let go of the ones…

the mayflies and the apple blossoms

A certain sadness to slow us down, is that what it takes? Or a gem in the road, and for a moment, without question, We give thanks or not. Today the apple trees seem full in bloom as if suddenly—and wasn’t yesterday a different story? Of course, my heart swelled in joy for them and…


To at times be indecisive, is it not as natural as the shifts in weather? Somehow, this world has managed to live, resilient and unending—

That Place of Solitude

To be alone and not feel that loneliness, this takes many years. To discover, when in search of those places that offer solace in solitude, certainly, this takes many years.

The Loving Honesty of Heartbreak (in 5 poems)

I won’t act like I know what love is or write so certainly of it.  I know I have, and do often think of it, but so far every grand epiphany reminds me how vast of a concept love is.  I can speak of heartbreak and the beautiful breaking down the parts of ourselves to…


  Right now, there is that compelling drive to make those twenty-something hours to Tennessee, to run along the low-hum of dreary mountains into New England and on over to New York, To take my time coming back, through the quiet rocky forests To all those pieces of my heart I left behind in each…

The Corgi

To my dear sister fighting cancer.  This was a poem for her birthday. How often do people stick their face in yours to ask, what it must be like, as they coddle you and call it affection—do they know? your short comings have never stopped you from coming as far as you have. And, anyways,…


    violin All I can play are two notes one followed by the other not saying too much or too quickly even simple notes can create melody sometimes isn’t that most of our days— knowing we did something, felt something, but have so little too say?      


Maybe all our dreams are about those fears, even the ones we smile over that laughter might first sprout from a nervous notion lest something else could flash out: that might it be possible for me to hold something tender that I will come to want so dearly?